


All The Broken Places

by bzarcher



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: AU, Beta Colony, Escobar, F/M, Gen, Regrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-02 12:13:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bzarcher/pseuds/bzarcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shards AU: One order from Serg changes things. A plan is altered. The consequences are unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Contact With The Enemy

_The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially._

-Ernest Hemingway

_No plan survives contact with the enemy._

-Traditional maxim

Aral could feel something sticky running down his face, and hard deckplate against the opposite side of his jaw. A klaxon sounded, somewhere far away, and as he opened his eyes, his vision swam beneath a haze of smoke. 

_Damn you, Serg._

He'd been willing to let his honor go, for a greater cause. He'd agreed to the plan, and cast himself onto the pyre in the hopes that Barrayar might survive. He'd let Ezar and Negri convince him of the neccessity. Serg would have been Grishov and Ges's puppet, until he finally swung loose of even their strings...and had he been Emperor at that point, he was like to make even Mad Yuri's terrors look tame.

He'd accepted that men would die, to save others. A soldier took oath knowing that he might be asked to lay down his life to protect his home. But this obscenity of a plan was almost too much to bear, despite that. The only solace he'd kept was that he might be able to save a few more by preparing and planning - drips and drabs, but just enough that he might be able to look at himself in a mirror again.

And then Serg had bitched it all to hell.

The fool taken the bait well enough, after they'd found him in his cabin, managing just in time to hide Bothari. Without Ges, it had been painfully easy to set him alight, and watch him march towards his death. 

The problem had been his own damn conscience, when he'd tried to convince Rulf not to take ship with the madman. Apparently Serg had expected Vorhalas to follow him immediately, and hearing Aral trying to convince him to hang back had enraged the twit further.

 _Sometime after you've started disembarking ground trops, but well before it's completed..._ He'd almost said too much. It was almost a blessing that Serg interrupted him before his guilt made him a betrayer twice over.

"Vorhalas! Enough!" His face had been twisted with rage. "I told you that I will lead us to glory. You're a coward, listening to a wittering old woman!" As the crown prince's anger wiped out whatever sense the man had left, Aral knew he'd set the barb. Serg would be so desperate to prove his courage that he'd leap into the lead troopship before anyone could say no.

"I'll be the hero of Escobar, and you'll be the fool who sat and watched." Serg turned to Vorhalas. "Vorkosigan is to be held in his quarters and provided a live tac display so he can watch my triumph. _General Vorkraft_ will move up and hold station behind _Sanguinaire_ so he can see me bring Escobar to heel with his own eyes."

He could feel the blood drain from his face, as ice gripped his heart. Serg's eyes flashed with satisfaction, thinking him grey with rage. Rulf knew otherwise, but it was too late now. He couldn't dare say another word.

As they left, finally, he felt the weight of worlds crashing down on his shoulders, and he sagged into his chair with an explosion of breath.

Illyan opened the bathroom, and Aral could feel the ship's drives engage beneath his knees as he knelt next to Bothari, desperately trying to revive the man. He gasped to life just as they maneuvered into formation with the flag.. He filed the protest that might, perhaps, give a few more men a chance, but too bloody little at this point. After Illyan left to grab food, he'd talked to Cordelia to try to ease his mind, but it wasn't enough. The tension built as they slid into formation, and the tactical displays gave him a view of the early stages of the battle.

Cordelia slept, briefly, and he tried to follow her example, but his mind would not stop racing. He finally reworked "Contingency Blue" enough that, perhaps, it might work with the new formations.  Might adjust for being here, in the heart of the fray, rather than where he could safely guide as many home as he could pull away from the grave.

The troopships launched, and he saw the first exchanges in sickening detail. A thousand men? Perhaps more. All to make sure that a madman's death would be lost among the tide.

"Simon."

"Sir?"

He held up the disk with the revised plans. "I need you to take this to Tactical. Now."

"The Prince..." 

"Isn't here, Simon. And this might be the only chance we have to salvage some part of this."

Illyan's eyes narrowed. "What do you know, sir?"

"A realization, too late." He looked at the displays, again, and thought of Rulf. Remembered visiting Tanery Base for an inspection tour after a busy day at the general staff where he 'just happened' to run into Rulf at the communication center a few minutes before orders had come in promoting Vorlhals, Rulf M. to Captain, and assigning him to his first command. By strange co-incidence, he'd also 'just happened' to have a flask of his father's best reserve brandy in his attache case, and they'd drunk a toast to his new ship. 

_I am sorry, my friend._

"You're the only man I can trust to get this into that room safely, Simon. Please. I need you to go, now."

Illyan still looked at him with newborn suspicions, but he was a good man, and he did as he was asked, heading down the corridor.

All too quickly, he saw the plasma mirrors begin their work. Lights winking out in the display. Voices of confused desperation on the comms. Korabik's fatal mistake to drop shields. In his mind's eye, he saw  _Sanguinaire_ crumple beneath his own reflected fire. The hungry tendrils of energy and flame would have melted his hull like a freshly made candle. His only solace was the fact that it was too quick for them to even realize what had happened.

Simon must have reached the tactics room, because slowly, the battle began to die away. Ships still capable began to turn away and cease fire, burning back towards the wormhole. A rearguard assembled itself, painfully slow, but the Escos were content to watch them withdraw, it seemed. Simple math demanded that only so many of the surviving troopships would be recovered, and even emergency transfers could only do so much before life support would be overwhelmed. 

Aral hoped that the pilots who could figure out the score would be smart enough to heave-to, and at least they could be taken prisoner. Prisoners could be repatriated lat-

 __ **BOOM**  
  
With a sickening lurch, the cabin was suddenly tilted, and emergency lighting snapped on, coloring the world in blood red. Hauling himself up, he managed to claw for the comms while Cordelia tried to brace herself against the bathroom door frame.

"Venne? Report!"

Static blurred the screen, but Venne's voice was clear, at least.

"We maxed shields as you...suggested...but the port generator cascade failed. Overload somewhere in the coils caused the whole thing to blow out."

He spat a few words of Russian that he'd never utter where anyone else, particularly a woman, could hear. From the sound of it, the generator hadn't just failed, it had detonated, and the power systems throughout the ship were likely compromised from the flashover and shock. He'd tried so hard to protect his crew, even now, but it seemed that cruel fate had one more card to play.

"Do we have anything?"

"Maneuvering's up, but he's sluggish to his helm. I cut back the starboard generator to make sure that wouldn't go as well, so we have debris protection, but not much else."

"Get the Engineer on it as fast as you can -we need to keep up with the withdrawl if at all possible. Anyone who isn't absolutely vital will stand to damage control parties."

"Aye sir."

The comms snapped off and there was nothing else for it. "Can you walk, dear Captain?"

"As long as the floor stays at the same angle. I twisted my ankle a bit, but I'll live." 

He nodded. He was fairly sure he'd sprained his wrist in the attempt to break his own fall. "Bothari?"

"Out again. I think he hit his head when he fell off the bed."  
  
One more thing on his conscience. He could only hope the man survived long enough that he could repay some of the debt he felt towards the poor mad bastard.

"We'll get a medic over here as soon as we can stabilize the ship. We have to get to Tactical, or at least Damage Control."

She nodded, and started making her way to the cabin door. Amazing woman. Good in a crisis didn't even begin...

They'd barely made it into the corridor when something made the entire ship shudder, then some horrendous fist slapped the cruiser sideways. Battlefield debris that made it through the weakened shield? Another major system failure? Some rogue Esco captain's parting shot at a crippled enemy?

Aral's mind raced through possibilities, but he'd never know. It all spun through his imagination even as the floor rushed up to meet him again, and he sank into blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Serg's flagship is never named in Shards, since it's only seen from Cordelia's POV in passing. I figured that given the tendency for the Imperial Service to name ships after famous military / political figures, calling it after Pierre Le Sanguinaire would be a nice nod to the canon. 
> 
> 2) Yes, the ships are 'male'. Given how much the Barrayan Vor borrow from Russian culture, this seemed entirely natural.


	2. Escape and Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dying ship, a hope of rescue, and a prayer for understanding.

_"He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness."  
_ -Alexandre Dumas

Cordelia came back to herself with a shock as pain lanced through her leg. If she'd twisted the ankle before, it was likely broken now. The taste and smell of smoke was in her nose and mouth, and her head was pounding even before she heard the keening wail of some emergency klaxon or another.

The emergency lighting was still on in the corridor outside Vorkosigan's cabin, but she could barely see to the next hatchway through the gloom. 

Looking around, a spike of ice went through her brain. Vorkosigan was crumpled against the deck. Blood was already trickling down his face from a nasty looking cut - he must have clipped the side of a fitting on the way down. He was still breathing, though, and as she pulled herself to him on hands and one good leg, his chest rose and fell. Breathing. Good.

A powerful cough racked his body, and slowly she saw the glitter through the gloom as his eyes opened, far too unfocused to be truly seeing anything.

"Vorkosigan! I need to know what that alarm is!" His mouth moved, slightly, but she didn't think he was really responding to her. Her own voice was tinny and distant in her ears, her head still ringing.

"Dammit, Aral!" Her voice crackled with command, louder now, and she could feel her irritated throat burn with effort. "Snap out of it!"

That finally seemed to get his attention - hah! - and he rolled to one elbow, propping himself up and shaking his head sharply to try and dislodge the cobwebs. 

"Can you hear me?"

"Yes, barely...dammit. Don't know what happened. Too many possibilities, all of them bad."

"That alarm?"

"Major hull breach. Loss of integrity." His face became grim. "The  _General_ is dying. Anyone who can will be heading for lifeboats."

Her guts clenched, but there wasn't time to be afraid. Too many ways that this could end in their bodies being left adrift in the void, or blasted to their base atoms.

"Where's the nearest to your cabin?"

"Foc'sle orlop. There's one down the next corridor that's technically closer, but it was adjacent to port shield control." He didn't have to elaborate, given what had already happened. No wonder they'd been able to feel that explosion as much as they'd heard it.

"I can't put much weight on my leg. Can you stand?"

He didn't answer in words, but reached up to grab at the edge of another cabin's hatchway, then levered himself up. Bending down, he offered his shoulder. She looped an arm around him, braced herself for the pain, and nodded. She didn't bite her tongue, quite, as they pulled each other upright, but her stomach twisted hard. 

He kept her upright, her arm around his shoulder, his bracing her at the waist, and leaned them against the corridor wall so they wouldn't risk getting tossed again. The walk to the forecastle didn't seem nearly as long when she'd been sneaking through the ship before, or during her parole as a prisoner. Too damn long, and she was starting to have visions of making it to the end of the corridor only to find them all gone when a red hatchway came into view, with a set of green lights on either side.

"Green is good?"

"Green means it hasn't been launched, at least. I can't speak to condition yet."

"Good enough."

When they came to what she could now see was an emergency airlock connecting to the small escape craft, she could see eight seats through the porthole into the lifeboat, all unoccupied. Her eyes flicked automatically to the conditon panel's readouts, thankful they were in a language she could read.

"Life support charged, emergency beacon ready, explosive bolts armed. Pressure's still equalized."

Vorkosigan nodded, then hauled back his fist before smashing through the glass panel over a large red button. She winced as she saw a glittering shard embed itself into the back of his hand, but there wasn't time to comment. The airlock cycled open and he pushed her in, hard, desperately trying to get her into one of the escape couches. He limped in after, then grabbed a red handle just inside the lifeboat's hatch and pulled it down with all the strength he had left.

An new, harsher buzzer sounded as the green lights around the hatchway turned to red, and an armored cover slid into place, sealing the lifeboat. 

Vorkosigan threw himself into the couch next to hers, and snapped his restraints into place before doublechecking her own. She did the same, then reached over to pull the glass shard from his hand. The skin was warm, still strong, but sticky and oddly slick with his own blood. She clamped her fingers over his anyway, a strangely electric sensation running through her whole arm as he gripped back just as tightly.

The explosive bolts fired, pushing them back into the padding of their couches, then things became oddly still for half a heartbeat before the lifeboat's single use engine roared to life for perhaps a minute. She wondered what the Barrayaran shipwrights considered minimum safe distance, and just as she was about to ask, the lifeboat once again grew quiet, though some part of her could tell their inertia was continuing to carry them away.

Vorkosigan slumped. "Alive, Dear Captain. We'll make it."

She squeezed his hand briefly. "Do your lifeboats have first aid kits onboard?"

"There's a survival kit under each escape couch."

She unbuckled, reached down, pulled the white and red striped box free of the bracket that had held it in place. Vorkosigan let her bandage his hand, but there wasn't anything she could easily splint his other wrist with. She rummaged to see if she could find a synergine ampule - his eyes still looked oddly glossy, and he had taken that nasty whack to the head. The last thing he needed after today was a concussion.

After triaging each other and finally getting a dose of synergine into him, the adrenaline spikes began to fade, and her mind replayed what it could of the hectic escape.

"Bothari was probably still passed out, wasn't he?"

Vorkosigan's face became drawn with pain that had nothing to do with his injuries. "I...fear you are right. All things considered, it may have been a mercy."

Something inside of her hissed at that. He'd given himself up entirely to save her - one of the bravest things she'd ever seen. No matter how damaged the man was, that bravery had deserved a better reward.

"One more on my conscience."

"You did everything you could to get them to safety. More than I thought possible - you seemed to know exactly what was going on even when everyone else was panicking. If you'd had a chance to handle things from the tactics room, or back at the jump point..." Her train of thought came to a sudden crash as his remarks to Illyan and earlier mention of the politics behind the invasion slammed together. "You knew about the plasma mirrors." It wasn't a question.

He looked incredibly tired. "Yes, I did."

"How?"

"Negri had at least one agent on Beta Colony. So once he knew they existed, and that Beta would give them to Escobar..."

Blood was draining from her face. "You said it earlier - put the rotten eggs in one basket, and drop it."

He seemed to wither from the powerful, arresting man she'd grown to love into a sad, shriveled thing. "If I hadn't, I would have been condemning tens of thousands - perhaps hundreds of thousands - to death. Serg had already been working with Vorrutyer and Grishov to plan death squads. Internment camps. Industrial murder on three worlds. I sacrified my men and my honor to protect those innocents." Vorkosigan's head slid back, resting against the back of the couch. "God forgive me."


	3. Far Distant Shores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lost, but perhaps found again.

After his confession, Aral closed his eyes and tried not to let all the ghosts which surrounded him pull him under. She'd been silent, his dear Captain, and it was from more than the need to conserve oxygen.

_How can you love me? How can you look at me and see anything but the monster you feared?_

She'd shown him such honor - such hope - and he'd rewarded her trust with a greater butcher's bill than anything he'd ever been accused of.

"Are you asking me to forgive you?"

Her voice was like cool water on a burn, and his eyes snapped open to meet hers. Drowning in those grey mirrors, he was lost for words for a long moment.

"I don't know if anyone can truly forgive what I've done. Judge, perhaps...but forgiveness would need to come from those who no longer have a voice."

She reached out and gently touched the hand that she'd bandaged up. He felt himself grow very, very still. A deer hiding from a hunter?

"I'm sorry, Aral. I can love you. I can try to unburden some of your pain. I'll hold you until your tears stop. But I can't judge you."

"Ah."

He shook his head a bit, trying to clear the webs. The synergine had worked, but there was still a haze around him that he thought was separate from his emotional state. "Perhaps...perhaps it would be enough, in time."

"I can't come to Barrayar. I would have feared it before, but with what you've told me..."

_Shit._

She was right, of course. Ezar and Negri would belike kill them both if they knew he'd unburdened himself to her. Far too late, he wondered if the lifeboat's beacon contained an internal recorder. Nothing for it now.

"I love you."

"And I, you."

"What happens next, then?"

He considered.

"I think that depends on who ends up opening that hatch." Green fatigues meant home, and disgrace at best, a silent grave at worst. Escobaran troops would probably take him prisoner, but repatriation would be a sticky question, given his role in the affair. War crimes tribunals seemed entirely likely. Betan rescuers...would present some options.

"Ordinarily, I doubt I'd be offered a visa for Beta colony, even with my grandmother's blood ties."

"No, not right now...hard to say if that would change in a year or two."

"A prisoner, however, requires no visa." Her breath caught. He tried not to look directly into her eyes as he spoke. "Once in custody, things might be arranged. Do you think a request for asylum would be taken seriously?"

"I don't...I truly don't know."

"I can't serve him anymore. I'm used up. I've nothing left to give, and nothing more I'd wish to say to the man. Father...won't know. Could never know.  He wouldn't understand. I thought I could go back, get drunk, and just hide myself in the mountains, but now..." He spread his hands apart, wincing at the pain from his wrist. "It's too damn close."

Her restraints came free, and suddenly she was pressed to him. Her arms wrapped around his, and their mouths found each other with a keening desperation. As first kisses went, some part of him mused, it was certainly memorable. He lost himself in her. Gave up his grief and found a balm in her warmth, felt some fragments of himself lay back into something like their proper place - still jagged and broken, but with the hope of repair, in time.

He wondered if anyone had ever done this in one of their lifeboats before. Whoever designed the damn couches certainly hadn't planned for it, that was for sure.


	4. No Turning Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why is yours that odd yellow color?”
> 
> “It’s the ‘lemon surprise’ flavor.”
> 
> “Does it actually taste like lemon?”
> 
> “Of course not. That’s the surprise.”

Cordeila wasn’t sure how long they had lain on top of each other inside the lifeboat, her head to his chest, his arm curled tenderly around her  shoulders. It probably wasn’t much more than an hour or two, but she felt surprisingly refreshed when she finally stirred. Endorphins, hah. Even the pain in her leg seemed farther away, though the painkiller tab she’d taken from the survival kit didn’t hurt, either.

Aral grumbled a bit in his sleep as she slipped gently out from his arm, but didn’t wake. She had a feeling his exhaustion was emotional as much as physical. Let him get all the rest he could.

A quick exploration of the lifeboat found a small hatch that lifted up and out to expose a toilet, to her great relief. She made a more leisurely examination of the survival kits, and finally found an air sleeve that she could place around her ankle. It worked a bit differently than the equivalent from back home, but once she had it arranged and inflated properly, she didn’t feel at risk of collapsing again.

Eventually, Aral awoke, and after a moment of what seemed to be disoriented panic, he saw her sitting next to him, and gave her a look of delighted relief.

_Did you really think I’d leave you like this, love? Not as if I have anywhere to go._

As he sat up and re-arranged his frantically undone clothing, he left the top of his shirt open, and the cuff around his sprained wrist undone.

“Found these, finally.” Tossing him over a smaller sleeve, he pulled it on with a bit more ease than she had, and pulled the inflation tab with his teeth.

“Ahh. Thank you, dear Captain. I’m fairly sure it’s not broken, but this will do a world of good.”

She couldn’t help but smile at him. “I also found some survival bars. Feel like breakfast?”

He made a face as he reached for one, but still unwrapped it. “I fear you may find the oatmeal and blue cheese dressing to have been a much more palatable option.”

“They can’t be that bad.”

“Mm. I was once told that if a man had nothing to eat but rat bars for over a week, he’d generally start refusing to eat by the sixth day.”

She almost told him that had to be an exaggeration, but after taking a bite…perhaps not. “It…must be providing a fair bit of calories and vitamins.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Why is yours that odd yellow color?”

“It’s the ‘lemon surprise’ flavor.”

“Does it actually taste like lemon?”

“Of course not. That’s the surprise.”

Her laugh was interrupted by a deep humming sound, and Aral stiffened. His good hand came up, dropping the bar, and fixing up his shirt.

“Grav tractor?”

“Mm. Impossible to tell who it’s coming from,” he paused, then looked up at the ceiling. “Given the time we’ve been in here, Escobarran or Betan would seem most likely.”

She swallowed down the last bite of the bar, then watched Vorkosigan carefully take the stunner from his uniform’s belt and toss it to the floor.

After a few minutes, the tractor stopped, and the sudden silence was broken by the metal on metal sound of a docking collar mating up to the lifeboat’s hatch.

The lights on either side of the hatch went from yellow to amber, and then amber to green. She looked over to Aral, and was struck by how still he’d become. “Would my people be able to open the hatch?”

“Yes. It’s designed to be opened by any rescuer. The pressure and atmosphere’s equalized, so I’d imagine they’re just getting a security detail in place before they see who is inside.”

Her stomach clenched, and her hand reached out for his. Squeezing his fingers in brief reassurance, she looked to the lifeboat’s hatch as it slid open, then stood as a man in tan fatigues stepped through. She almost fell over laughing at the way his jaw hit the floor and his hand came up to salute at the same time.

“Captain Naismith! You’re rescued, ma’am!”

She returned the salute, then smiled. “Thanks, Ensign. My…prisoner…and I need some medical attention. Could you take us down to sickbay and have your CO meet us there?”

“I….um…yes ma’am. Are you both capable of walking?”

“Mostly. My ankle’s not doing so well, but I think the cast will hold until someone can look at it.”

“And does your prisoner need a guard, ma’am?”

She looked over. Aral had a strange mix of relief and regrets in his eyes, but he kept his voice level as he answered the unspoken question.

“I’ve given Captain Naismith my word, and she accepted my parole.”

The ensign lead them out of the lifeboat and into the rescue ship. She looked back for a moment. Aral locked his eyes on the corridor ahead, and never turned away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All honor onto Ben Hutchins, from whom I stole the lemon bar joke.


	5. Falling Into Transition

 

Aral was a bit surprised at how easily the Betans adapted to his presence. From the initial stick of six crewmen who had escorted him and Cordelia from the lifeboat, all armed with stunners, their guard devolved into their guide and a pair of crewmen while the ship's surgeon gave both of them a thorough exam.

After confirming that his wrist was sprained, but not broken, the doctor opted to leave the sleeve that Cordelia had found in place, while her ankle was diagnosed as a break and a torn ligament, for which she received a bone bond and a careful reattachment with surgical microtractors. 

It made him want to weep. The medical technology taken for granted here was far beyond anything even the best equipped clinic at ImpMil was currently capable of.

_We pretend to have come so far, but in the smallest things, I see just how much farther there is to go._

True to Cordelia's request, the ship's Captain came down, and she formally requested permission to come aboard, which seemed to amuse the man, and then explained that she had brought back a high ranking prisoner who was considering making a request for asylum, which did not. 

"I don't have any orders about how to handle that. I was told to assist with recovery operations, triage wounded, and transfer the Barrayarans to the prisoner camp the Escobarrans are setting up dirtside."

Aral winced. He doubled that anyone running the operations down there would have the bent mindset of Ges or Serg, but he had a feeling that putting the men in that kind of confinement wasn't likely to end well, particularly if some of the jailers had a taste for revenge.

Cordelia simply met the captain's gaze. "I understand. But this is a unique situation. Are we close enough to the planet for decently timed comms?"

"Not quite, but we will be in a few hours. We're going to complete our search grid and then burn for the transfer station."

"Right. For now, can I ask that you keep the Commodore separated from his countrymen?"

The captain pursed his lips, then nodded. "That I can do."

The ensign who had brought them to the sickbay lead him to what he was told was a crewman's berth, currently doing double-duty as a brig. After being told a crewman would be left outside as a guard, and that he was expected to behave himself, Aral was left physically alone for the first time in days. No guards, no ImpSec, no batmen, no aides, no Bothari, no Illyan. He wasn't sure he'd been alone like this since before the _General Vorkraft_ had left for his final cruise. Possibly not since his last visit down to the long lake. 

The sudden silence beyond the noises of a ship under power was striking, and the lack of Cordelia's presence left him with a dull ache from heart to soul. He took off his uniform's jacket, and removed his boots before laying out on the bunk. He had to admit that he was impressed by the cabin - the basic ratings on this ship apparently got better cabins than a Lieutenant would aboard an Imperial ship.

He tried to rest, but felt strangely exposed and naked. He wanted to stay with Cordelia, and didn't regret the snap decision he'd made in the lifeboat, but couldn't help but fear the possibility of his request being denied. Would Negri have an agent waiting for him? Would he be put on a transport back to the Imperium and then suffer some form of 'unfortunate accident'? Perhaps they'd just let slip that the Butcher of Komarr was in their POW camp, and let the Escos finish the job.

Worse, he could be allowed to leave Escobar, but denied transport to Beta. What then? Would he become some kind of stateless vagabond, hoping to find somewhere that would tolerate him? End up in some mercenary fleet? It wasn't as if he had many other trade skills to fall back on.

His mood became a blacker and blacker study as time went on, until he somehow managed to depress himself to sleep, his mind still racing from one failure condition to the next.

* * *

At the sound of the door opening, he woke, wondering who it would be. Relief flooded him when Cordelia stepped through, dressed in a fresh set of fatigues.

"Success, dear Captain?"

"That depends on how you define success." He sat up, swinging his legs out, and she sat at the opposite end of the bed, carefully not touching him. "I've been given approval to bring you back to the sandbox, but they won't make any permanent decisions until you've had an interview with a few people from our diplomatic corps, and it sounds like the Mental Health Board will be involved, too."

"Ah. But at least it is... a start."

"I'm also supposed to minimize my contact with you. They want to make sure we're not some kind of bizarre sleeper agents." That explained her reluctance to make a physical contact, at least. 

"I'm...glad you were able to explain that to me, at least." He tried to keep an edge of bitterness out of his words, but the flash of pain in her eyes told him he'd failed.

"I wish it was different, but we'll have to tolerate it, for now. I'll do everything I can to make it a short separation." Now she did reach out, touching his face gently. "I haven't forgotten what you said, back there."

"Nor have I, dear Captain."

The kiss they shared this time was brief, and heartbreakingly chaste compared to that first furious embrace.

He kept both memories close at hand through the rest of his confinement, and their warmth helped keep the silence at bay.


	6. Naked Before You

Cordelia didn’t think she had ever had such a difficult, conflicted homecoming.

She’d been relieved to find out that a security officer in the brig had shown the human decency to get the rest of her captured crew out of their cells and into a lifeboat before the _General Vorkraft_ had gone down, but horrified to learn that they’d assumed she’d fought her way out of captivity before capturing Vorkosigan. _That_ had lead to a series of unpleasant interviews and exchanges with some of the Escobarrans who wanted to know what had occurred during her captivity.

By the time she’d (finally!) been allowed to take ship for home, along with Vorkosigan as a prisoner ‘pending formal review’, she’d felt like she’d been emptied out and shaken to make sure nothing would rattle loose. Worse, when they made it to orbit, she found out that Steady Freddy wanted to give her some kind of medal, and only the fact that the Escobarrans had suggested she and Vorkosigan were ‘possibly security risks’ kept her away from that circus.

After sitting for a board of review lead by Commodore Tailor, she’d finally been absolved of any lingering doubts, but Vorkosigan’s status remained ominously vague. They’d finally insisted she attend a formal award ceremony, and she’d stumbled through the speech that had been ‘helpfully’ prepared for her, feeling like a liar and a fool the entire time. She hadn’t gone off to win glory or ‘change the fate of a battle’ – she’d just kept doing what she thought was the right thing until she’d been up to her neck in the entire mess. She'd been told she was on paid administrative leave "until further notice" - a nice way of saying she was grounded. Maybe permanently.

She’d finally retreated to her mothers’ apartment in Silica, desperately concerned for Vorkosigan’s safety and entirely unable to contact him. Trying to talk to her mother about it had been...awkward, and mostly unsuccessful. She'd stopped trying to explain it all within a few weeks.

She’d felt a funk settling over herself, and had tried to keep herself busy by helping out with a few things, but each time she went out of the apartment she was recognized and lavished with attention as the hero of the 120 day war.

Trapped in the apartment, she’d managed to sneak a few friends in for visits, but felt herself going more and more stir-crazy when she received an unexpected visitor.

“Hello, Captain. May I come in?”

“Commodore Tailor? Why are you here? Am I finally safe enough to be given a new ship?”

She welcomed him in and offered coffee, and waited for an explanation.

“I wish it was that simple. I’ve been involved in the discussions about your prisoner’s asylum request.”

“Oh. And have you made a decision?”

He grimaced. “Not yet. But we’re close. The problem is that the Mental Health Board wants some things answered that he won’t, or can’t, discuss, before they provide their assessment.”

She had a feeling she knew what a few of those were, all right.

“When they explained that he would only be allowed to remain on Beta if he was given a fast-penta assisted interview, he balked for a bit…then finally relented on one condition.”

“That condition being…?”

“He’d like an advocate in the room. He specifically requested you.”

“…oh.” She felt her face flush, just slightly. The trust he had in her was deeper than some people she’d known for far, far longer. But was she prepared to see him laid open all the way to his soul?

_Yes._

She stood, and she felt the fatigue that had settled around her like an old coat melting away. “I’ll do it. When do we leave?”

* * *

 

They didn’t really get much call for political refugees on Beta – and the Survey wasn’t exactly used to taking prisoners, even before they’d been reorganized into a fighting force. The Barrayaran government maintained a small consulate, but obviously wasn’t an option for this situation. In the end, Vorkosigan had been placed in a small hostel, with security patrollers placed outside to prevent escape – or intruders.

She’d been introduced to the psychiatrist who would be supervising the session – a thin, tan woman who looked cool and professional in her uniform. Dr. Mehta seemed quite cheerful and upbeat, but something about her set Cordelia’s teeth on edge. She tried to put it to the back of her mind.

Dear god, but Aral looked awful when she finally got to see him. His entire being spoke of fatigue, and something in his eyes…they looked as if he’d been drained to his dregs.

She saw the faint revulsion as Mehta and Tailor preceded her, but when he saw her behind them, it was like a beam of light breaking through a cloud. “Ah. I had hoped, but wasn’t sure you’d come, dear Captain.”

She tried to keep her smile from seeming too forward, but the look in his eyes said volumes. “Where else would I be?”

“Indeed…”

Tailor broke in with a slight cough. “As you requested, you have your advocate. May we please go ahead with the interview?”

Vorkosigan took a slow, deep breath, then nodded. “Yes, Commodore. I’ll consent to the interview.”

While Dr. Mehta began to unpack a kit, Cordelia went over to Aral’s side, pulling up a chair to sit next to him. “Can I ask what you’d like me to do, today?”

“I have no idea what questions they’ll ask. I suppose I just wanted someone there who could ask them to stop, perhaps, if things start to get out of hand.”

“I can’t promise that they’ll listen, but I’ll try.”

“I think that will be enough.”

Mehta finished setting up a set of small boxes on one of the hostel room’s tables, then spoke up. “I’m ready here, Commodore.” Tailor looked to her, and Cordelia nodded, moving back to sit next to her…colleagues? That suddenly didn’t quite feel right. Mehta took a small hypospray and a round white piece of material from her kit. “If you can roll up your sleeve, sir…”

Vorkosigan complied, and Mehta placed the patch to his wrist. After nearly a minute, there was no reaction from his skin, and she nodded. “It’s safe to proceed. I’m going to administer the drug, and then we’ll begin.”

“Very well.”

“As I administer the injection, I’d like you to start counting backwards from ten…” The hypo hissed softly as it was pressed to his arm, and Cordelia could see some of the tension that wrapped his face begin to fade in moments. His eyes seemed to gaze at something in the back of the room, and his mouth creased upwards in a smile before he hit ‘three’.

Mehta looked over. “It’s very important that only one person ask questions right now. It’s very easy to overwhelm or confuse him in this state. If there’s anything you need to ask beyond what I’m going to go through with him, please ask it through me.”

Tailor nodded. Cordelia took a deep breath, and waited for the ‘interview’ to begin.

“Can you state your name, please?”

“Aral Vorkosigan.” She noticed the Russian in his accent had become a bit thicker – a bit deeper. Well, he’d mentioned his family came from what was considered a rural area.

“And where are we?”

“Beta Colony. A hotel room. Probably a nice place when it’s not being used as a brig.”

“What day is it?”

“Thursday. I think. Lost track somewhere…”

Apparently satisfied, Mehta moved on.

“You wouldn’t talk about your childhood, previously. Can you tell me about growing up?”

“Da was running between the capital and the District a lot. Kept busy. Putting the world back together after the Cetas. M’mother tended to keep up after us. My older brother and I used to run around…when Da came home we’d go fish, or go out to Bonsanklar, til…”

Cordelia’s hand tightened. She remembered the way he’d oh-so-carefully maneuvered around discussing the civil war during his childhood, back when he’d first started to talk to her. She had a feeling it wasn’t going to be a pretty story.

“Until what, Aral?”

“Yuri.” His face twisted, revulsion fighting through the fast-penta haze. “He was emperor, y’know. Decided that Dorca’s heirs might be a threat, politically. Even before he went crazy he wasn’t as popular as Dorca had been…”

Mehta cut him off, gently, to interrupt the sudden lesson in Barrayaran political climes.

“What did Yuri do, Aral?”

“Killed them. He sent men to our house…it was m’birthday, like. He knew that we’d be celebrating…m’mother tried to get us out. The armsmen stayed. Couldn’t stop them…too many. She pushed me into the lightflyer…I remember watching her as it took off. The needle grenade hit…so much blood…”

Whatever Mehta had been expecting, that wasn’t it. She looked genuinely surprised, and perhaps a bit shaken.

“I’m very sorry, Aral. What happened after that?”

“Da got to me. We hid. Used the back country until we could get to Green Army’s barracks. Found Ezar. Da made him a deal – Ezar would take the throne, keep it in the Vorbarra family. We’d back him and get the others behind him to deal with Yuri. I ended up helping them make plans, take messages…started being a soldier right there.”

“How old were you?”

“Eleven.”

“That seems very young.”

“The Count m’father was fighting Cetas almost as young. I always hoped that if I had a son, he wouldn’t have to be…he could choose what he wanted to be.”

Mehta looked to Tailor, who nodded.

“I’d like to move ahead. Is that all right?”

“Ya, that’s fine…”

“You lead the attack on Komarr, didn’t you?”

“Spent a couple years preparing…we had to do something. Had to keep the wormhole from being used as a steel trap on our necks, but I thought I could do different…”

“Different how, Aral?”

“Not the old way. Not the guerillas, the blood…fight the war but use maneuver. Take the soletta. Take the stations. Fight clean. No more bloodshed than absolutely necessary.”

“You wanted to minimize the casualties?”

“Exactly.” His bearing straightened slightly, almost like he was repeating a practiced speech. “The domes are a triumph of engineering, but they’re a major tactical weakness. The population has nowhere to go. By exerting a fairly minimal amount of military pressure, the government has no options but surrender. From there, occupation should have been simple.”

“But it wasn’t simple, was it?”

“No.” He shook his head. “God, no.”

“Was that because of Solstice?”

He nodded, and again his face fell, then perked, then fell, emotions warring between his true self and the drug. “Galvanized the resistors, and brought families who might have accepted a gentler assimilation into opposition. A nightmare that’s going to last years.”

“Did you order the killings in Solstice dome?”

Cordelia hissed under her breath, and got a sharp look from Tailor, but held her tongue. Not surprising he wouldn’t talk about it…or did he talk and they didn’t believe him? She understood why they’d want an answer, but dragging him through the bloody memories again…

“No.” Vorkosigan’s voice was quiet. Leaden. Even the fast penta couldn’t lift him from this. “I had been negotiating. Gave them my word I wouldn’t allow them to be harmed. Thought we’d really made progress…I left. I thought I could trust the men I’d left there…”

“What happened, then? You were in command.”

“The ministry of political education had sent a Political Officer with us. He claimed he was making an example…don’t really know if I believed that he was acting on his own, tho. Still think he might have had orders from Grishov. Greasy bastard. He took men that were loyal to him…one finally broke and went to find me, but I couldn’t get there in time…”

None of them could speak to stop him. They were transfixed, like the audience watching the ancient mariner spinning his tale of woe.

“They’d used needlers for maximum spread. Horrific impact. The blood was almost up to my ankles…thick and starting to crust over like some nightmare pudding…nothing clean. Terrible, terrible death.”

“What did you do then?”

“Had the _Zampolit_ arrested. The squad, too. I could send THEM to jail, but he was…complicated. I knew he’d have protection back home.”

“Protection?”

“Grishov. He’d have pulled the man inside of PolEd and make him disappear. Even ImpSec might not be able to find him. Was mulling that over when they brought him in. The twisted bastard…he was _proud_ of it. He thought he’d done something wonderful. I had the most terrible rage…saw nothing but red…grabbed him by the neck and gave his victims what justice I could…”

They’d clearly expected him to confess to a mass murder. Hearing him describe taking a man’s life this way, enraged, with his bare hands…it obviously unsettled Mehta. Tailor looked like he was going to be sick.

“Swore I’d never let something like that happen again…did everything I could to change the Service. Make it clear what an illegal order was…..’s part of why I had to stop Ges.”

“Ges?”

“Ges Vorrutyer. He was my best friend a long time ago. More than that. Married his sister. We were…you couldn’t split us apart. But he changed…or maybe I did. I saw more and more ugliness. Abuse. Started fighting him. Tried t’have him forced out, but he’d found a power base. Always was good at politics…”

“How did you stop him, then?”

“Mostly by keeping him surrounded with men I knew could tell right from wrong. Even then he managed to do some things…horrible things…was shocked when Bothari finally snapped.”

“I’m sorry, who is Bothari?”

“Sargeant Bothari. I suppose it’s was, now. He was on the General. Don’t think he made it out. Vorrutyer wanted a monster. Tried to make him into one. Pushed too hard…he snapped. Attacked him. Damned near cut his head off. I’d have given him a medal if I could.”

Tailor leaned in to Cordelia, whispering, “Is that what really happened? One of his own men killed him?”

She nodded, whispering back. “Bravest thing I ever saw, in some strange way. He broke through all the twisted conditioning he’d received…saved my life.”

Tailor grunted. Mehta’s face had become a careful mask.

“May we ask you about Captain Naismith?”

Cordelia stiffened, but Aral’s mouth turned up into a wide smile. “Ahh. Rather talk about her than all that ugly past any day.”

“She captured you, aboard your ship?”

“She captured me a long time before that….dear Captain. Didn’t know what to think when I first met her. But she was incredible. Smart. Strong. Clear headed. Kept her wits in a crisis. Beautiful. Honorable. If things had been different…if she’d said yes back then…I’d have poured out the groats and married her on the spot.”

“You asked her to marry you?” That broke Mehta’s reserve, with a note of clear surprise.

“Ya. Back before the war. First time I met her…she was getting ready to go home. Had to try…but she said no. Probably just as well, now.”

“Why don’t you want to go home, Aral? Why do you want to stay here, on Beta?”

“Ezar begged me to fight. Asked me to make sure that Serg and Ges didn’t get too many good men killed on their stupidity…told me it was the only way. But it was for nothing. Worse than nothing. Just blood spilled for no point on both sides…too many dead. Rulf, Gottyan, god knows how many more…tired of constantly spreading death everywhere I go. Tired of being Ezar’s pawn.”

He wasn’t quite spilling over into what he’d done. What he’d been ordered to do. Cordelia kept…very still. Maybe he could survive this without ripping that last wound open, if she didn’t lead them to it.

“So you want to stop fighting?”

“Oh, yes. Maybe see if Cordelia will take me up on another offer. Wouldn’t be Lady Vorkosigan now, tho. I might not even be Lord Vorkosigan by now, if they’ve censured me. Maybe I could be Mr. Naismith?”

She couldn’t help but laugh at that, softly. She got a funny look from the others, but nothing more.

“You have no intention to be a spy, or to use Captain Naismith as an agent for your government?”

“What? Hah! No, never, never. She’d never agree to it. I’d be terrible. I don’t have a face for lying. They’d send Illyan, maybe. Some ImpSec man, assuming he didn’t get driven crazy by the sight of all the women in sarongs…”

Mehta looked to the box next to her, then to Tailor. “No stress markers. No signs of fighting the drugs or a post hypnotic suggestion. He’s telling the truth.”

Tailor looked like he’d been hit with a brick. “I…see. Please go ahead and administer the antagonist, doctor. I’ll speak with you outside, afterwards.”

She drew another hypo and injected it into Vorkosigan’s arm. It was painful to watch his mind return to him. The memories that had been dredged up seemed to layer, one upon another, and weighed him down anew. Cordelia thought of that perfectly unencumbered smile. She wanted to give him back that joy, somehow…it seemed so unfair to deliver him back to such agony.

Tailor put a hand on her shoulder, breaking the reverie, and she nearly jumped. “I need to speak with Dr. Mehta, and then make a report. I think…it might be best if you stayed with him, Cordelia.”

Their eyes met, briefly, and Tailor looked away. He seemed guilty. Perhaps he’d believed some of those reports, after all. Or perhaps he simply hadn’t expected the raw emotion of the whole affair? Hard to say.

“Yes. Yes I think it would. Thank you, Bill.”

Vorkosigan was silent, until they left. Once the door shut, he stood, slowly, then walked to the bed before collapsing down onto it with a deep, painful sigh.

“That…was better and worse than I expected.”

She could see tears collecting at the corner of his eye. She didn’t say anything. She crossed to the bed, and lay down next to him.

He put his arm around her, bringing her close, and she felt his chest silently shake as the tears began to fall. Some new, some old, perhaps even some held in check all the way back to that terrible day where his mother was murdered.

This was what he’d really needed her for - not truly during the interview, but after, to offer him shelter, just as she'd promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long - I'm moving house and my life has been insane with the holiday season to boot. As it was, this ended up exploding out to something much larger than I expected - almost as long as the rest of the work combined - but it would have been an insult to cut it.
> 
> Surprisingly, I couldn't find any references to Aral's middle name anywhere. I'm sure he has one, but LMB has never used it, and odd as it sounds, I don't want to guess wrong...


	7. One Foot In Front Of The Other

_Beta Colony_

_  
_When Aral woke, he felt empty. He didn't even know when, exactly, he'd drifted off to sleep. He'd wept, his arms around Cordelia, as he tried to deal with re-living some of the worst days of his life. The ghosts of Yuri, Serg, his mother, and his brother had seemed to hang over him, just out of his vision.

Now, the strange mix of grief, self-loathing, and anger had faded, and he was surpised to find himself in a much better state. His thoughts seemed a bit less muddled, his senses a bit more aware. It was if he'd lanced a boil that had been festering on his soul, and found himself able to move forward again.

After examining his emotional state, his body began to check in, and felt a vague sense of alarm that he was alone in the bed. He sat up, eyes snapping open, and let out a long breath when he saw Cordelia in one of the hotel room's chairs, her eyes touched with concern.

Some secret place within himself had feared that she'd leave. That he'd be adrift in a strange place, with no hope of returning to anywhere he might call home.

His breath puffed out in a soft "Ah!" as he looked at her, and that secret place seemed to melt away. 

"Good morning, dear Captain."

"Good morning to you, too. How are you feeling?"

"Emptied out, but I think there's hope of filling myself back up again."

She nodded, and crossed to sit on the bed, taking his hand.

"I've been thinking about something you said, during all that."

"Oh?"

"You were thinking about asking me to marry you again."

"Ah. Yes, I have. I've spent a lot of time thinking about...everything to do with you, honestly." How strange that a woman who he'd spent perhaps a month or two with, face to face, had become to center of his world. His previous marraige hadn't been like that. Not really. They'd known each other for so long that she'd been a constant in his mind, but nothing like the way this remarkable woman captivated his attention.

"I think I'd like you to do that. Very much, in fact."

His breath stopped. Her eyes were blazing as she looked at him, a smile on her lips. He felt frozen and on fire all at once, and when he finally found his voice it was hushed with surprise and excitement. "Well, then. I had better do it properly, this time."

Sliding out of the bed, his knee scuffed against the carpeted floor, and he took her hand between both of his as he looked up into her eyes with a fire of his own. 

"Cordelia Naismith, will you marry me?"

She leaned down, and he couldn't say which of them started the kiss, but it was a most satisfying answer in its own right.

"Yes, I will. Go get a shower, and I'm going to see if I can spring you out of here to go buy some earrings."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this got stalled. My hopes of having some time to write over the holidays turned out to be a bit optimistic. 
> 
> Unless something grabs hard and demands it, I think there's going to be a couple more chapters to put to paper, but I'd expect them to be moderate to short in length, so hopefully I can get them out the door a little faster!


	8. Messages from home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very unexpected visitor.

Simon Illyan wasn't sure what he expected when he'd arrived in Silica, Beta Colony's capital, but he still found a few things that didn’t sit well with him.

He had the benefit of his galactic travels over his career, and briefing on the...peculiarities...of Betan culture long before arriving. He wasn't stunned on sight by the various genders and methods of expression, or scandalized by their modes of dress.

What got him, really, was the living arrangements as he explored the city. Apartment blocks and residential complexes in the underground city resembled something closer to the corridors of some modern, reasonably upscale hotel than anything he would identify as a neighborhood. Meters and meters of doors, some decorated, some plain, while the more public areas ranged from elegantly minimalist to remarkably baroque in decoration, but it all seemed a bit lifeless.

For all of their vaunted openness, Illyan found Beta to be a very sterile place.

He’d spent the better part of two days getting the lay of the land and visiting landmarks like the Silica Zoo and the Interstellar Flight museum while working to gather the information he needed, finally arriving in a housing block not terribly far from the University District.

Despite being on the planet legally, old habits died hard. He watched the building for over an hour before carefully entering the housing block without being observed, or leaving any obvious trace of his presence. He’d dressed in a set of neutrally colored ship-knits, and except for his lack of jewelry, could easily be mistaken for a new resident, or someone making a professional visit.

Which, he reflected, wasn’t entirely untrue.

He used the stairwell to reach the third level, followed the helpfully labeled corridors until he reached the address he’d been provided, took a deep breath, and knocked three times at the apartment door.

His chip’s chronometer had just reached 28 seconds, just before he’d have likely knocked again, when the door slid open, revealing a somewhat bemused Cordelia Naismith.

The chip automatically brought up a flashback of the last time he’d seen her. Her face looked slightly fuller, and the style of earrings she was wearing subtly changed. (Heterosexual/Partnered/Monogamous, his chip informed him.) No longer dressed in any type of uniform, she was wearing a pair of loose, flowing trousers made of some diaphanous green material, and a cream colored top smugded with pastel colored stains near her waist.

She regarded him with a combination of faint surprise and interest for several seconds, then seemed to draw on some reserve of social graces as she smiled.

“Well, hello, Lieutenant Illyan. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Commander Illyan now, actually,” Simon corrected her, then returned her smile with a faint one of his own. “I happened to be in the neighborhood. May I come in?”

She considered that a moment, then shrugged, stepping back and gesturing him in. “I suppose if you wanted to kill either of us, you wouldn’t have done the courtesy of knocking.” Once he had entered and the door slid shut behind him, she gestured deeper into the apartment. “I’m guessing you’d like to see Aral. Come with me.”

Scanning the apartment using his peripheral vision, Illyan was interested to see that it was closer to the minimalist style he’d seen in decoration, with carefully placed bursts of color, sturdy but elegant furniture, and a relative lack of clutter. Interestingly, one of the few framed pieces of artwork on the walls was a painted landscape of a wide lake, bordered by deep green hills and a pleasant looking cluster of small buildings – almost certainly a Barrayaran scene, though there was a small possibility the scene was depicting somewhere on Earth. Certainly not anywhere on Beta.

He’d expected some attempt at small talk or polite interrogation, but instead Cordelia remained quiet, leading him a short distance to a door near the apartment’s kitchen.

Knocking once, she opened it without waiting for an answer, and announced “Aral? We’ve got a visitor.”

Illyan followed her in, and stopped short at what he saw.

The room had probably been a bedroom once – larger than the master bedroom at his own apartment in Vorbarr Sultana. Now, it was almost devoid of furniture, save for a comfortable looking set of chairs along one wall, a small set of cabinets, and a stool that currently held Aral Vorkosigan.

An easel was set up in front of him, and he was carefully applying chalk (in some of the same pastel shades he’d seen on Cordelia’s clothes) to a canvas to form a stunning desert sunset.

Several of the walls had framed and mounted pieces on them, while other canvasses were lined up beneath them, some finished save a frame, others blank and waiting for the artist’s inspiration.

He placed the chalk into a case that was sitting by his side, then turned, his eyebrows raising at the sight of his guest.

Like Naismith, the chip immediately pulled up his last reference – god, had it only been a year and a half ago? The man in the memory file looked drawn, weighted down by something beyond understanding as he’d pleaded for Simon to take an updated tactics file to the bridge.

Now, the features were the same, but the man was almost unrecognizable. His color was better, his eyes bright. Illyan thought he could still detect some of the shadows lingering there, but they’d been pushed back, giving the rest of him a chance to live again. His shoulders were firm, and when he stood, dusting his hands off on a rag, he moved like a younger man, offering a firm handshake in greeting. Slightly to his surprise, he noticed that Aral Vorkosigan had his ears pierced, too. (Nearly identical to Naismith’s but for the slight (and surprising) twist around the earlobe that indicated bisexuality.)

“Hello, Simon. I hadn’t expected Ezar to send you.”

“I’m afraid this was a posthumous request. I take it you haven’t seen much news from home?”

Aral motioned him to the chairs, waiting for both Illyan and Cordelia to sit before he settled back onto his stool, his arms crossing against his chest.

“News from Barrayar isn’t common here unless they’re acting on a galactic level. Anything more has to be deliberately sought out, and I…felt it would be easier to avoid reading about my own trial for desertion and treason.”

Illyan answered with a dry smile. “You may be pleased to hear that there was no trial.”

Aral’s eyebrows rose. “Truly?”

Illyan nodded, and continued when Vorkosigan gestured for him to go on. “Emperor Ezar and Captain Negri…were very careful about how reports of your capture were released to the public. Only a very few knew you had requested asylum.”

Naismith had moved to stand behind Aral, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. “How few is few?”

“Lord Voryorte, the ambassador to Beta Colony, Ezar, Captain Negri, myself…and your father.” Vorkosigan winced, and his face turned ashen when Illyan continued, “He is also now aware of why.”

“ _Shit,_ ” Vorkosigan breathed, his voice barely audible, then looked up. “I take it that you are also aware of my...reasons, then?” The shadows had returned to his eyes, a terrible guilt draining the energy from his face.

Illyan nodded, feeling his own expression fall. “I’m afraid you tipped your hand with the disk, Sir. Once I returned home, and saw the aftermath of the riots that destroyed Grishov and PolEd, I had the rest of the pieces. I brought my suspicions to the Emperor, and he gave me the complete picture.”

Vorkosigan worked his hand against Naismith’s for a moment, then looked away. “And the Count my Father?”

“Count Vorkosigan was…insistent on understanding what happened. He did not accept the official cover stories for your capture, or the death of Prince Serg. His confrontation with the Emperor was…memorable.”

“Hah.”

“They reached a compromise when the Emperor secured his support for Prince Gregor’s Regent.”

Aral’s eyes rose. “A compromise.”

“His support came at the cost of knowing exactly what happened. His silence was secured on his Oath as a Vorkosigan.”

The room was quiet for a long moment. Illyan swept his eyes over the art again, finding the raw emotion passing wordlessly between Vorkosigan and Naismith a bit too much for him to observe directly. Finally, Aral broke the long silence, his voice kept deliberately mild.

“So. Who was the regent the Emperor secured at such a price?”

“Count Vorhalas is currently the acting Regent. But that was a compromise until his preferred candidate would be available.”

Naismith’s face paled, and her eyes bored into him. “And who would that be?”

Illyan stood, his posture changing from casual to ramrod formality. “Lord Aral Vorkosigan, the last command of Emperor Ezar was to request and require that you return home, and act as the Regent for Emperor Gregor until he reaches his majority.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I didn't expect this either! My brain just started typing and this...happened. 
> 
> Will Simon get an answer? Well, we'll have to see what my brain does next.


End file.
